


Sell Out

by Unloyal_Olio



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Omegaverse, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:31:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omega!Sherlock has hidden his status all his life. Still, he has to let himself go into heat at least once every 18 months or so. After alpha!John moves in that becomes a problem. Finally, Sherlock arranges for John to be out of the country for his upcoming heat.</p><p>...John comes home early. </p><p>(Yeah, this is straight up pr0n.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sell Out

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a Prompt for the Kink Meme @ http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=112071578#t112071578
> 
> If you're unfamiliar with omega!verse, you can get a primer [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/403644).

There will be no risks taken. 

John's taxi to Heathrow takes 42 minutes. Sherlock has bribed the cabbie for confirmation, but that's only the first assurance. On Sherlock's laptop, a red dot is blinking inside a map of the airport terminal. He activated the GPS connection in John's mobile an hour ago. For now, the dot is paused in the boarding area. 

Sherlock doesn't relax until the dot is speeding down the runway (and then finally, confirmation #2: the airport lists the 9:34 a.m. flight to Belfast as "Departed"). It's only then that he goes to the armoire in his room. The Victorian-era masterpiece is an antique handed down from his great-uncle. Sherlock pulls open the drawer, undoes the false bottom (which, when removed and returned to the armoire unlatches a small side panel) and pulls out the jar with the large, pink pill. 

Normally, Sherlock takes the small blue capsules, the treasured hormonal suppressants that take away his impulses and allow him to keep his mind as tame and logical as a CPU. They work flawlessly for 18 months, but 18 months is the line. After a certain point, his body starts to wage civil war, and the effects of the suppressants diminish. Missing a pill becomes dangerous, and in his line of work, should he be kidnapped or knocked unconscious—it could end in a state worse than death. 

It has been 19 months and 7 days since his last heat. With a shudder, Sherlock downs the pink pill with a glug of cold tea.

He has less than three hours. In John's room, he steals the heaviest, longest coat he can find. It stinks of alpha and poor attempts at picking up female betas and a trail of spilled beer under the left sleeve. Sherlock doesn't let himself sniff the areas where the scent is the strongest (the back of the neck, the arm pits). He pulls it on, along with a horrid jumper that's at the top of the laundry pile; he runs down the steps. 

He texts Lestrade on the way to Tesco. 

Out of town for the week.  
Up north. Out of touch.  
On the Barton case, it was the family nurse.  
Regular intake of undiluted hydrogen peroxide  
eroded the victim's stomach lining.  
The diluted version is commonly  
used to clean teeth (but swallowing  
is not recommended). The nurse  
was in a relationship with the wife.  
-SH

That doesn't match the post-mortem. -Lestrade

Redo it. Sack Anderson. -SH

Before you go, there's another case.  
Can I stop by in an hour? -Lestrade

No. And don't text me either. -SH

It'll be only a minute.  
Is this family business? -Lestrade

Do not come by. Do not text me.  
I will text you. If you bother me,  
I'll tell the whole department  
about the "experimental" blowjob  
with Dimmock three months ago. -SH

The answering message from Lestrade is as expected:

Wherever you're going,  
I hope you go fuck yourself. -Lestrade.

Yes, Lestrade, (a brilliant, if unintentional, deduction) that is exactly what Sherlock is planning on doing. 

At the store, Sherlock purchases two bags full (rice, soup, bananas, whatever is easy on the stomach); he picks up Palak Paneer (unfortunately, not spicy) on the way home. He's crossing the street when the wind picks up. At the end of the block, Sherlock watches as a twenty-something in a suit spins in his direction. He's dark-skinned and broad, naturally, as alphas are. He’s definitely unbonded. Sherlock's knees bend outward ever so slightly (submission—no—straighten) as the primal part of his brain considers the prospect. It takes every ounce of cold reason to keep walking, to avoid notice. He's still not in danger. The alpha is expecting someone his own age, and Sherlock is a less likely candidate than others in the street. Regardless, he wastes no seconds, keying the lock at 221b, and getting himself and his traitorous pheromones inside.

After sliding a note under Mrs Hudson's door, Sherlock pounds up the steps and sets out at once with preparations. Since eating is the worst chore known to man, he spoons bites of curry while drawing the curtains, locking the doors, and taping insulation over the vents and gaps in the windows. Later, after he's drunk four glasses of water and turned out all the lights, he begins to feel the first signs of heat.

Sherlock feels flush. When he bends over, the texture of his cotton shirt is scratchy. His pants are too tight, confining. Even the loose curls at the back of his neck (he’s past due for a hair cut) tickle him. There’s nothing else to do: he goes to his room and strips bare.

The room is cool, but Sherlock’s skin is hot. He’s not sweating but will be soon enough.

In the interim, Sherlock has to be quiet. He can’t play his violin. He can’t take John’s Browning and give the wall a new polka-dot pattern (despite how the damask theme has worn on him). No, no, no. Boring. Dull. Delete. Delete. Delete—but it won’t bloody delete—he has to be quiet.

He lets the shower steam, before adjusting the temperature and stepping into the hot rush. His body craves the heat even as Sherlock knows what it truly desires is another body, a stronger, rougher one to lend its temperature, but as that is not a remote possibility, Sherlock maintains his professional relationship with 221 Baker Street’s water heater.

When he steps out, it’s minus a towel (putting terrycloth against his skin is unfathomable). He’s trailing puddles, and he’s not walking in a straight line, but he’s still clear minded. In his bedroom, he peels back the rug, lifts the floor boards and pulls out the impossibly heavy box.

The contents inside are of his own design. There’s the collection tube, the pressurized pump, and the soft seat with the washable cushion, ergonomic handles, and most importantly, the large rubber cock dead center in the padding. To provide enough weight for ballast, Sherlock has to gather heavy objects from around his room, piling them in the bottom drawer of the chair. The setup, well tested after all these years, remains effective. 

In this trial, he won’t be aiming for high collection levels. When he was younger and feeding his drug habit, he had been so careful about collecting every last secreted droplet. He’d even set up a swing back then, so he could just lie there—being fucked according to the tick of the timer cycle. When he woke up (wretched and nauseous), there’d be 10-12 thousand dollars worth of black market _eau de omega_ bottled under pressure. That was always something of a consolation.

These days, he’s more wary. He doesn’t need alphas wheeling around when he passes them in the street. He doesn’t need the illicit funds or the coke. He has John and his cases. 

John. 

(Oh, fuck. Why is he already thinking of John?) 

John is far away, where he should be, visiting his stupid (though convenient) army mate. Thus, Sherlock is free to defrag, to take all of the sneaky thoughts and images and distractions (John’s smell being the worst), and dissolve in them like salt in water. 

It’s wrong, Sherlock knows. It’s wrong how he slipped the recorder in by John’s bedside, how Sherlock checked it night after night until he caught a symphony of creaking bed rails and shifting sheets and John’s heavy, grunting breathing—and oh, the best part, the end, the glorious finale where he’d spilled himself hissing _Sherlock_ in sibilant-simian groan-growls that Sherlock has replayed 321 times since he first heard it. Then there’s the pair of John’s boxers in front of him. Though they’re folded on the center of his bed, Sherlock can smell the traces of semen from the middle of the room. And lastly, there’s the video. It’s not of John—John wanks with the lights out, the bastard—but it’s of a similar looking man. Certainly, he’s taller than John, but his shoulders are broad in a similar way that Sherlock likes. There’s no scar, either, only an angry, gnarled tattoo that cuts across his left hip bone. The young omega the alpha breeds is pale and black-haired (not that Sherlock will pay much attention to him), but all together, the recording, the silent video, and the scent of John—Sherlock knows it’s all wrong. 

And yet he’s excited. He’s planned this meticulously. He’s never gone into heat with someone in mind before. He’s always kept it so generic, because before, generic would have sold him, but now, Sherlock is fixated. And that’s wrong.

He’s needed this heat like he never has before.

He needs to get John Watson the fuck out of his system. 

As the first tremor hits, Sherlock pitches forward on his bed, sprawled and aching and clawing at the sheets. When he lifts his head from the pillow, it’s because he’s forgotten to breath. Air, oh sweet, air. And yet, this is all why his body is so cruel. Until he gives in, the tremors will come. They will quake in his belly and harden his cock and cause his own omega-made lubricant to leak as a sticky mess between his thighs. The tension will twist and twist. With each breath, the coil will tear at him until he’s not human any more. Until he is nothing but a brainless, needy beast.

It takes a minute for his arms to function, and he positions himself on the edge of the seat. He takes a breath and starts the video. He draws another and hits the play button on the recorder. On his last breath, he lifts up. He spreads his cheeks, leaning back in the chair so that—yes—it’s there, right there, a blunt head ready to fuck his arse. He lowers himself just enough, and then his thighs are burning, the next tremor is coming, and he grabs the handles on either side of the jar and pushes down.

Gravity sucks him down and yet his brain keeps going, flying away as he rocks with the spin of the tremor. The cockhead is deep inside of him. It feels… Sherlock wiggles, adjusts himself—so much better—so much. But still not enough. He anchors his feet, pushes up. He comes down again.

In the background, Sherlock hears John’s voice. He’s panting and the bed is squeaking with his thrusts. On the screen in front of him, the omega has not yet been taken. He’s running. He’s got a smile on his face, but he’s running. The alpha is taking long strides after him. There’s nowhere for the omega to run. The hallway ends in a dead end. 

Both Sherlock and the alpha know this.

On the recording, John’s panting is coinciding with the alpha’s own hoarse breaths. The effect has Sherlock moving up and down faster on the chair. He thinks he might like this—the hunt's inescapable rush of adrenaline—even more than the claiming.

When the omega reaches the dead-end, he spins around with clenched fists. The smile is wiped from his face. The alpha approaches him with slow steps, so easy, so confident. His erection hangs like a sword.

The omega spreads his knees, looking ready to dodge in any direction. As the alpha closes in on him, the omega breaks right—trying to run past. The alpha catches his wrist, and then it’s not over, but it might as well be. John’s voice on the recording is a soft grunting of “fucks”. Like the alpha, he sounds like he’s at war. 

The omega’s arse is stripped bare. Sherlock’s not interested in the creamy round flesh, but he likes the way the alpha licks his lips like he’s been offered dinner. Sherlock also likes how when the alpha raises his hand back to smack it, he doesn’t hold back. The handprint on the red flesh is scarlet. It’s bright red, and the only thing that’s redder is the omega’s face. He’s positively moaning. 

When the alpha yanks down his trousers, exposing himself, the omega freezes.

On the recording, too, John’s voice goes quiet. 

When the noises start up again, John’s breathing is hoarse. He’s whispering filthy things, like _you think you don’t want it but you do_ or _worried you won’t be able to take it all?_ and on the screen, it’s like the omega has heard his voice, because after leaning up to sniff and lick at the alpha’s neck, he obediently turns over, pushes up on all fours, and waits.

Sherlock makes sure that the alpha’s slam into the omega’s body coincides with his own heavy downward push. 

On the recording John is saying _take it (take it) take it (take it)_ and Sherlock is pumping his arms, angling his body so it gets the best angle. It’s not as good as the omega on the screen has. He doesn’t have John’s knot swelling on his insides. He doesn’t have John, but he does have his voice. He has an approximate image—and Sherlock frantically reaches for the pants on the bed. 

John’s smell.

Sherlock buries his face in the fabric, half-sobbing as he thrusts up and down, rocking himself, riding the giant fake cock, and pretending, pretending that this all something that it’s not, because he wants—he wants—

On the recording, John’s voice is a mess. It’s storm and bite and command—

The omega in the video can’t even stay up anymore. He’s long since been flipped over. His knees are over the alpha’s shoulders, and he’s a pile of bones rocking mid-air, as the alpha fucks him across the room.

It’s when John’s voice finally says his name—Sherlock—it’s when the scent under Sherlock’s nose goes impossibly rich—and the omega screams—that Sherlock finally comes. He comes shivering and trembling. There’s the pulse of his cock ejaculating, and it goes and goes until, at last, all of those tremors dissolve into a slow death, crushing bliss.

But then Sherlock’s eyes fly open. It takes him three seconds. 

Three seconds to identify three facts.

1\. The alpha smell coming from the cloth isn’t just coming from the cloth anymore. It’s thick in the room.

2\. When he heard his name spoken aloud, it wasn’t just from the recording.

3\. As he makes his eyes focus turn and look toward the door, Sherlock has to blink twice before he believes that John Watson is standing in front of him.

And he looks furious.

. . .

The evidence looks bad.

Regardless, Sherlock makes the first plausible statement that comes to him. “I can explain.”

John, back flat against the door, only watches him. His breaths are so steady, so even. If Sherlock didn’t know that John was an alpha, he might be tricked into thinking John was a beta. John’s only change in expression comes as his eyebrows lift ever so slightly. “Sherlock, you have my pants. You have a recording of my voice. You have a video with my likeness. Now, your one error, if you mistakenly thought I was that—” his eyes point at Sherlock’s “seat,” at the cock he’s sitting upon “—small, I’m not taking that part personally. But really, I don’t think explanations are necessary.”

Sherlock lifts himself off the offending object, crosses his legs with as much dignity as he can muster. It’s not easy. John’s smell in the room is distractingly palpable. When John doesn’t seem ready to lunge, Sherlock marches over to his bed, pulling the sheet up and around him. “You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be en route to Northern Ireland.”

“Oh, I think I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Sherlock can’t help his shudder, but also—in John’s voice—there’s the implication. “You knew.”

John doesn’t budge from the door. “While I was in the army, there used to be a man I could go to for omega pheromones. A tiny little bead would run two hundred quid, but there was never a shortage of customers. The pheromones always came from the same unbonded omega. You.”

“That’s a statistical improbability.”

John rolls his eyes. “Now, imagine how chuffed I was when a few months back—do you remember when we were gassed by those thugs at the pier?— you leaned back against me, and I smelled… you might recall that I almost fell over, but—”

“My selling my pheromones doesn’t mean I’m yours to breed.”

John waits until Sherlock is finished. “If you didn’t want me, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I don’t want you.” Sherlock intends to make the words bite, but they sound like the weakest little protest.

John squares his shoulders. “A few weeks ago, I found the recorder by my bed. At first I thought it might be another experiment, that, maybe, you were cataloguing my PTSD, but I had more than a few nightmares end up on that device, and yet, it stayed in its hidey hole. It took me a few days to figure out what you really wanted.”

“It was a nice bit of theatre.” Sherlock can’t help the acid in his voice.

“I wasn’t acting.”

Sherlock swallows. John’s never been like this. He’s the master of amiable and kind; for an alpha, it’s bizarrely submissive behaviour. Thus, John is not supposed to be the one rigidly in control right now. John’s supposed to be the one attacking Sherlock—trying to force himself upon him. Sherlock doesn’t know what John wants. He turns away, pulling a pillow to his chest. He doesn’t give a fuck if he’s being petulant. “Did Mycroft set this up?”

Though Sherlock didn’t hear his footsteps, John is right there. “Sherlock,” John says, “Turn around.” 

His breath is at Sherlock’s ear, and yet, the tone, the command, Sherlock twists so fast it almost hurts.

They stare at one another. John's lips are a breath away. And the faint fans of lines around his eyes are so soft. Sherlock doesn’t remember what he was planning on saying.

John speaks instead. “Mouth open,” he says, tapping on Sherlock’s bottom lip. In his hand is a thin green pill. It’s birth control, specially designed for omegas in heats. “Doctor’s orders. I said open.”

Sherlock opens his mouth.

John slides the green pill inside. Then he pushes a bottle of water at Sherlock. “Now, swallow.”

Sherlock gulps it down. “You’re so in control. How?”

John looks at him. “Control is not the word I would use.”

“What word would you use?” Sherlock asks, but the last word comes out strangled. A new tremor has raked down Sherlock’s spine.

John leans forward, letting his nose brush along Sherlock’s cheekbone. “I’m trying not to scare you.”

“I’m not easily scared.” Sherlock wishes his voice wasn’t rattle-and-whinge as he said it. John’s breath not only smells sweet but feels supple against his skin.

“No, not normally, but normally you are drowning in information. Not now. You’ve never been with an alpha. You’ve never been with anyone.” His voice deepens, sounds possessive and a little too proud of a fact of which Sherlock’s never been proud.

“Breeding isn’t my priority. My job is my priority.”

John groans. “That’s where you’re an idiot. You don’t have to choose.”

And that’s when he grabs Sherlock’s bare skin and pulls them closer together so that he’s buried in Sherlock’s neck, breathing fast and creating a hot pocket of air that burns, tickles, arouses.

“I hate you right now,” Sherlock whispers, because John’s mouth has started to move, has started to suck, and for the first time, Sherlock can discern how his own tremors are affecting John. Every time a tremor rakes through Sherlock, John seems to slip.

Sherlock shouldn’t like that. He does.

What he doesn’t like is that he is bare and exposed, pale and vulnerable while John is completely clothed. At the same time, he doesn’t want to be the one to ask. If this is going to happen—and well, at this point, yes, it’s going to fucking happen—he’s not going to be the one to ask for it. Naturally, it’s at this moment that another tremor shoots up through Sherlock’s abdomen.

Once his head stops swimming, he’s sprawled back on the bed, but his hands are gripped on John’s shoulders.

John is staring him down. “You need to shutdown that big brain of yours. Ask yourself this, Sherlock, what do you want?”

 _You_. Sherlock’s shaking, and as the next tremor rips through him, he’s worried he’s said the word aloud. “Aren’t you supposed to have forced your cock up my arse by now?”

John brushes Sherlock’s black hair behind his ears before pressing his lips against Sherlock’s sensitive lobes and whispering, “You’ve been watching too many videos.” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not everything in those videos is fantasy. The sexual frenzy in alpha-omega mating is a well-known fact.”

“And in every video you’ve watched, does the alpha take if the omega says no?” 

John’s hand has slid down Sherlock’s ribs and his thumb is pressing against his hip bone. It’s outrageously distracting as Sherlock tries to think of an instance. What he has watched has been porn, granted, but he’s never heard an omega say “no,” but they... “They run. They hide, and in the end they always get pounded,” he argues.

“But they never say no. After the alpha catches the omega...” John’s hand continues its downward path until it dead-ends betweens Sherlock’s legs. John grips his cock.

“Like you caught me?” The dual meaning of his words isn’t lost on Sherlock. 

“The omega always has to submit before the alpha will take.” John’s eyes are pouring sky and blue into Sherlock’s, and he has a hand pumping Sherlock’s dick, but it’s still a bombshell to the senses when he leans forward and presses his lips against Sherlock’s.

For a single terrible second, Sherlock frantically worries that he tastes like curried spinach and stale Ceylon, but then the fears are gone, because the taste. Oh, God and all the saints--John’s _taste_. It’s Olympian ambrosia and Sidr honey and desert manna and more-more-and-more, please. Sherlock is a heap of mushy bones and firecracker neurons, and John is solid ground that Sherlock needs to swim toward. He needs to push his arms and kick his legs and stay away from the Loch Ness depths, because the slick tongue brushing against his has all the wisdom and all the talent, and it’s the tool by which Sherlock can forget the idiots of the world and the nonsense facts. He can swim toward it, and he’s there; teeth are biting at his bottom lip, and he’s sucking on a lolly-sweet tongue, and his brain is gone. Whooooosh. Kaput. 

He must be making some outrageous noises. He must be saying some of these absurd thoughts, because John pulls away with a smile that is a million-universes-pleased and says, “It’s only a Loch Ness monster if you want it to be. Undo my zip.”

Sherlock attacks the jeans. He thinks he scratches because John winces, but then the button is popped, next the zipper is pulled, and finally, John is standing and saying, “I’ll finish it.”

The cold air cools Sherlock’s brain a bit. Also, there’s the galling prominence of John’s cock. Like John said, the dildo affixed to Sherlock's chair was a conservative estimate. 

John, being John, it’s like he has the Rosetta Stone of the once-and-future-Sherlock, and that’s why Sherlock shouldn’t be so staggered (though he is) when John rolls back into the bed, only letting their bodies touch when John’s tongue has long since returned to lapping at the sunken corners of Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock likes it. Fuck, he even wants it. John’s marble obelisk isn’t even that scary when Sherlock can’t see it, when it is nothing more than a hard, silken (moist) shape poking into his belly. And what is a belly when there are knees holding his legs wide open or when hands have his wrists plugged down into the mattress?

The trembling, the shivering, teeter-totter, mad quakes in Sherlock’s body are increasing. John rolls onto his side--rolls Sherlock with him--and Sherlock is certain that he’s left a puddle on the sheets. It’s worse than before. 

John knows. John smells. His hands cups Sherlock’s arse and the fingers search, find the wetness (a loud groan from John), and then sink into the hole (Sherlock thrashes). 

“I’m already--you don’t need to--just flip me and--”

John does not listen.

No. No. Idiot. Arsewipe. Fuckwit. Instead, he grabs Sherlock and pulls him on top of him, saying, “Sink your arse on me.”

Sherlock, as it is, is swaying. The sight of John’s thighs (thick, muscular, defined--”psychosomatic” limp, his arse--John’s been going to the gym the past month--also planned?) makes Sherlock seriously consider the proposal. It wouldn’t be that different. He would just lift up, and John will keep kissing him (and he’d get more of the taste, of John), and he’d press down, and it’d be like it was on the seat, just softer. Sherlock would do less work. There would be John’s knot inside of him, pumping him full of semen, breeding him--but, wait, not offspring--John gave him the pill--the breeding would be safe--but what if he had wanted progeny? (John hadn’t asked him.)

Somewhere in his own personal maelstrom, Sherlock metaphorically hikes the sails and literally puts weight on his knees, gathers his gelatined leg muscles into action, and lifts himself up over John.

John still has his shirt on.

“Off,” Sherlock says.

John raises his arms and pulls it off.

Skin. Scars. Nipples. Sherlock doesn’t know where to start. He ends up reaching for the shoulder first, the flame-dark tunnel that forms a medallion on the front chest and a starburst above the back shoulder blade. Sherlock is leaning forward, licking it, when John’s hands slide under his arse.

John pushes Sherlock just so, and by “just so,” he means that John has the tip of his dick ready for Sherlock’s arse.

“Sherlock,” John growls, and it’s with a peck on Sherlock’s nose, on brush of lips on his chin. The bite on his neck is harsher, though, and Sherlock recognizes it for what it is: an angry alpha begging.

Sherlock hates the sound. John should not beg.

And that is why he lifts his diaphragm, closes his eyes, and drops his weight down.

There’s the tremor that shakes them both. There’s the painful stretch of Sherlock’s insides that loops back around (like a happy, smiling pretzel) into drug-haze and pleasure, and there’s the way that John gives up on Sherlock doing any more of the work. 

Yes, John takes control, jerking Sherlock’s hips, bruising the sides of his arse, and fucking him up and down until it’s not enough--until Sherlock is flipped and John is an athletic shadow, dripping sweat above him, thrusting and cursing, and Sherlock’s only job is to find some leverage (the bed rail, the corner dresser, the pillow against the wall) so John can hit harder, push faster, go deeper.

When John finally comes, it’s with a shout, and Sherlock has long since come, but he comes again when the knot expands inside of him. The pressure shoots glorious sinusoids from pinkie-toe to nose-tip, and yes, bottles must be popped, so Sherlock spills again, the orgasm coming out the front as much as throbbing within.

What follows—in their later shags—is probably something like what you’d see out of a porn session. For starters, John (he was hiding it before) is very jealous. So he makes Sherlock suck the dildo while he pounds him from behind, and then, well, there’s the small cache of fluid that Sherlock collected in his single, pre-John orgasm. John says that it has to "be dealt with," and so yes, it ends up smeared all over John’s face, his nipples, his cock, as Sherlock licks it off and promises-promises that it’s only ever for John anymore. After that, John sits in the chair, as cool as a king on a throne and Sherlock sits on top of him. He sits and sits and sits again until his legs are knocked out from underneath of him, and he’s kowtowed on the floor with John lifting his arse just enough so that he can plug in with sovereign authority. It might seem rude or humiliating, except that Sherlock comes harder than he has in his entire life.

Two days, maybe three days (a week?) later, they’re a stinking, crusty mess of dried fluids on very expensive (now ruined) sheets. In the window over the armoire, a slat of sunlight has sneaked through the closed blinds. The short ray lands across John’s face, and Sherlock can’t stop himself from leaning in to kiss a path along the trail of light.

John stirs. His hand flops to covetously grip Sherlock’s waist. “Want tea,” he murmurs.

Sherlock is no longer so hazy. He is very much himself. “Get your own,” he snaps.

John’s eye pops open. “Make me tea.”

“No.”

Instead of frowning or sighing or doing any of the normal reactions that a normal alpha would do, John smiles. “Fine,” he says, pushing himself up. “But in a month—give or take—you will make me tea. And that’s not all. One tea cup will have actual tea, but in the other, I don’t care how many times you have to come until the teacup is full. It will be a full cup.” And with that John, bare-arsed and bruised and gorgeous, goes to put the kettle on.

Sherlock doesn’t think about protesting. Rather, he smiles, before shivering in delight.


End file.
